


Don't Fence Me In

by Blake



Series: Cole Porter 30-day challenge [9]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Flirting, Guns, M/M, Western AU, artoo the fat white pony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22369540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: All Han Solo needs is the shirt on his back and an endless sea of red-dirt desert on the horizon. And his horse, Chewie, who’s been with him on every heist and hustle this side of the Mississippi. And water, probably, since it’s hard to come by this far from the Rio Grande. And people to hustle and steal from. And his gun.Come to think of it, he probably doesn’t strictly need the shirt on his back.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker/Han Solo
Series: Cole Porter 30-day challenge [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610263
Comments: 8
Kudos: 61





	Don't Fence Me In

All Han Solo needs is the shirt on his back and an endless sea of red-dirt desert on the horizon. And his horse, Chewie, who’s been with him on every heist and hustle this side of the Mississippi. And water, probably, since it’s hard to come by this far from the Rio Grande. And people to hustle and steal from. And his gun.

Come to think of it, he probably doesn’t strictly need the shirt on his back.

He’s gotten a mite antsy in this Arizona pigsty of a town without so much as a trainstop, but at least it’s small enough he can see the horizon to the north, east, west, and south, not a fence in sight. He’s supposed to meet someone here who’ll point him in the direction of a new job in the next town over, but he’s spent more time shooting bounty hunters than clinking glasses of whiskey with any friendly faces. (He may owe enough people enough money that there’s a price or two on his head.) Chewie complains about all the time Han spends in the saloon, stomping his feet and whinnying all day and all night, which is exactly how much time spends in the saloon because there is not a single other goddamn thing to do in Tatooine.

“Gimme a break,” Han drunkenly asks his horse every night, patting his neck as they head out of town to camp on the outskirts with another waisted day under their saddlepad. Chewie huffs a disapproving horsey breath, but he still pulls the blanket over Han every night with his teeth. Turns out if you save a horse out from under a fallen cart full of confederate ammunition, you earn not only a free ride out of confederate prison, but also the eternal loyalty of the world’s greatest animal.

Han sleeps with his hand on the Falcon, making sure she never leaves his holster unless it’s to kill someone who’s trying to get him dead, or worse, between 4 walls with a lock on the door.

When the moon-faced boy and the old man came into the saloon, Han should have run for cover. He realizes that, in retrospect, after there are bullets through every cask of whiskey and at least one _additional_ Sheriff has a price on his head. That brings him up to four, he calculates, as he and Chewie gallop out of town with the two troublemakers who came asking to hire his gun for a pretty penny—but didn’t say anything about getting on the bad side of yet _another_ Sherriff.

He’s only mad until they get out in the open again. The open sky calms him down better than whiskey ever could, the steady walk of his horse under him like a rocking cradle. The stars are bright enough to light up the kid’s hair the same color as the silver in the mine a hundred miles northeast from here, where Han’s last deal fell through due to a pesky thing called a conscience. His own conscience. The worst kind.

“What’s so special about this letter you gotta deliver that you need the fastest gun in the west?” Han asks, remembering small details about the job now that the chase is over.

He watches the kid’s face twist into five different expressions, clearly struggling either to look at Han or to trust him. He’s not a bad rider, Han observes, watching his round ass seated deep in the saddle of his chubby white pony, Artoo. He has nice arms, too, the arms of a boy who grew up working on a farm—until one day that farm and all his family was set fire by raiders on the government payroll, if everything they told him at the saloon is true. He sends haughty glares with his pretty blue eyes, too, like he’s got some kind of moral authority just because he’s travelling with an old, drunk, _retired_ preacher.

Han bets the kid would be really good in bed, as far as virgins go. It’s been months since he was at a saloon that had _anything_ upstairs to keep his attention for longer than a night or two, so it’s understandable that his mind is wandering to such places despite the kid’s recent tragic loss. Even an old, drunk, retired preacher would forgive him. Chewie, on the other hand, grumbles judgmentally under him.

The conversation’s gotten away from him, lost in some murmurs between the other two parties. But he catches up when the kid— _Luke_ —hands him a paper. In the moonlight, Han unfolds it and sees that there’s a map attached to the paper. “It’s a map?” he asks.

Luke nods, pretty hair falling across itself like the blades of a lady’s fan.

The old man murmurs something about illegal labor camps in the Sierras. His goddamn palomino is wheezing and whinnying so loud, Han can’t even hear the old man’s drunken mumbling.

Luke, however, talks a mile a minute and with as much conviction as an agitated cat. It’s cute, so Han keeps his eyes on the horizon.

When the moon sets, they set up camp to wait for daylight. The old man is snoring drunkenly by the fire before Han even finishes setting up his own bedroll. The _only_ bedroll, he realizes too late. He’s not gentleman enough to offer his bed up to a guy that’s just lost his family, and he’s not gentleman enough to keep his hands off a guy that’s just lost his family, either. He offers to share. He’s the only one who can understand Chewie’s commentary on _that_.

They sit and watch the fire. Han is too wired from the last of the whiskey wearing off, and Luke is too wired because he’s apparently like that all the time. “Lemme see that map,” Han says, before snatching the piece of paper from Luke’s oversized leather coat. Luke fights him for it, but that’s not so bad. Then Luke just sort of—collapses, letting Han take the thing from his hands, like he’s offering up his very soul after a ten-second struggle. And that’s nice, too.

The handwriting on the letter is a girl’s handwriting. Han latches onto that—anything to get under this kid’s skin, and maybe under his britches if he’s lucky. “So who’s this Leia girl?” he asks, giving Luke a look that’s all eyebrow and hot smirk. He wants to know everything: if Luke thinks about girls, if Luke thinks about _this_ girl. Getting people to spill information and using it to get what he wants is what Han does for a living.

Luke blushes, all right. The color’s not so visible in the dim firelight, but the way his cheeks suck in and his lashes drop is all Han needs to know this girl is a tender spot worth prodding.

“Why do _you_ wanna know,” Luke hisses, an agitated cat. He’s sitting close enough that Han can smell the fresh sweat of a man who’s accustomed to bathing more regularly than is possible out here on the range.

Han holds his hands up in surrender, prodding deeper. If Luke is already jealous that Han might steal this girl he’s never met before, that suggests Luke’s probably pretty in love with her, but it also suggests he’s at least _thinking_ of Han as the kind of guy who is capable of seduction. Han knows he’s pretty good looking and well kept, as far as cowboys this far West go, so it’s not particularly flattering so much as it is practically informative: Luke is capable of imagining Han in romantic-type situations. That’s half the battle won.

With Han still raising his arms, Luke’s eyes drop low on his body—the familiar spot on Han’s hip where the Falcon glints silver and pretty and close. Han grins while Luke’s head is still bowed. “Wanna see _my_ girl?”

Luke licks his lips and stares. Han’s cock twitches. He pulls his pistol out, holding her lovingly in his hands.

“Smaller than I thought,” Luke says.

Han grips the pistol tighter instead of punching the kid for such sacrilege. “Watch your mouth, kid. She’s got it where it counts.”

Luke meets his eyes, looking up and reading him carefully, like he’s deciding whether or not to take back his words. “Show me?”

That’s more like it. “Not gonna waste a bullet spooking horses and waking up the old man.” He spins the Falcon around his curled trigger finger, lets her fall sweet and soft against his palm. “But I can show you how to hold her.”

“Yes, please,” Luke whispers, pretty and earnest. Han’s stomach drops so fast that it actually sparks worry in his chest, that out-of-control feeling when you start to suspect there’s been a rifle targeted at your back for a lot longer than you realized.

Luke’s hand is hot under his, bony and muscular at the same time. His knuckles fold neatly under Han’s, and his shoulder is strong against Han’s where they press side-by-side to get both their right hands out in front of their shared line of vision. Luke’s arm is surprisingly steady. Han talks about aiming and watches Luke’s dirt-encrusted thumb reach out to brush across the floral engraving in the silver.

“That’s good,” Han says, even though it’s not really good at all. He’s just approving of Luke’s appreciation of his beautiful pistol. Han thinks of the cowboy who first showed him how to use this pistol, just like this, and how Han had been a terrible flirt and the man’s cape had gotten twisted up between them and ripped in their haste to fuck, and it makes Han smile in a nostalgic way. 

So he’s taken aback when Luke suddenly drops his head sideways onto Han’s extended shoulder, twisting up to breathe against Han’s neck and moan like he likes what he smells. “Leia isn’t anybody.”

Han’s hackles raise even faster than his cock. Smirking his way into a stranger’s pants is one thing. Being tricked into sleeping with a guy who’s already disavowing his girl and practically _begging_ to have his virginity taken by the strong, handsome criminal that saved him from a saloon shootout is an _entirely_ different thing. That’s trouble. That’s _feelings_ and _attachments_. Han can feel the walls closing in around him already.

The boy feels good. _Real_ good. But not _that_ good.

“You sound tired, kid,” he says, pulling the Falcon away until Luke’s sweaty fingers slip from her and drop to his thigh. “We’ll get you to Alderan tomorrow.”

He lets Luke take the bedroll. Han sleeps on the red dirt, looking out at the empty horizon, thankful that there’s still nothing he won’t give up in exchange for his freedom. No noble causes. No fighting injustice. No pretty boys. No very pretty boys who smell good and hold his gun like she deserves. No pretty boys with good seats in their saddles, rocking back and forth, deep and strong. No shining blue eyes that see through you and mouths that probably cling something fierce.

Han falls asleep happy, looking up at the black, wide open sky. 


End file.
